


The Right Words

by VergerBloom



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 1950s Setting, Daddy Issues, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Times, I basically stole the plot of Carol I'm sorry lol, Implied Sexual Content, Internalised Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Older Man/Younger Man, Road Trip, Romance, Romantic Fluff, will is clueless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergerBloom/pseuds/VergerBloom
Summary: Will Graham, a shy aspiring writer, meets Dr Lecter, a retired psychiatrist, their relationship testing themselves and the boundaries of the society around them.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 30
Kudos: 123





	1. A Chance Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will meets Hannibal while bored at work in New York.

Will Graham despised small talk. 

He dreaded the slow, boring, introductions, out of etiquette rather than interest, the awkward pauses, and the long, ringing, silence at the end of the exchange. Of course, his job at League’s Fine Art Store in Downtown Manhattan made it an unavoidable daily occurrence. As he reeled off endless facts about which paint was used for which canvas, or why the expressionist piece would work well with cream wallpaper, he would disassociate within himself, and think of the words he’d much rather be writing on the page, how much cleaner and neater they’d be than his clumsy conversation, devoid of meaning. 

He parked his Schwinn bike at the corner of the street and walked the rest of the way to the store front. The late December air was frigid, Will’s breaths dispersing in small white clouds, the wan sun barely melting the thin coating of frost on the pavement under the heavy tread of his brogues. He sighed, running a hand through his coiffed hair and pausing for a moment, allowing himself a moment of clarity in the brisk cool of the morning before pushing the door open into the drab chaos of the day.

“Does this print come in Burgundy?” A stocky man with a long nose and dark, lank, hair approached the desk Will stood behind, clutching greedily at an unattractive canvas print of a bird. Will swallowed, preparing to deliver his best customer service spiel. He felt Mr Shulman’s, the store manager’s, gaze burn through the faded blue cotton of his shirt, and shuddered involuntarily. 

“I’ll just check for you, one moment,” Will replied, attempting a weak smile. He walked quickly into the backroom, still vividly aware of Mr Shulman’s gaze, and was relieved to find the print in stock.

“That’ll be ten dollars fifty,” Will said, returning from the room, willing the interaction to be over, as he always did. 

“Oh, would it be possible to gift wrap that,” the man asked, fumbling in his pockets for the money, “It’s a Christmas gift for my daughter, you see.”

Will nodded, “Yes, of course,” he answered, smiling feebly, acutely aware that he should’ve commented on the weather, or the man’s plans for Christmas, or that his daughter would love the print. It never seemed genuine, the times he’d tried it, like he was reading from a script. 

Will finished wrapping the print in the thick purple tissue paper they kept by the desk, tying it with a gold bow, and handed it to the man. 

“Merry Christmas,” the man said jovially, turning to leave the store.

“Merry Christmas,” Will replied quietly, too late, already withdrawing into himself. The sky outside was coal black, gold pooling like oil paint in the hollows and shadows of the street. He was anxious to get home to Bushwick, continue his novel, curled up in the peace of his front room…

“Good evening,” a rich voice drifted to him across the counter, evaporating Will’s train of thought like sun on snow. Will lifted his eyes to the man before him, and found he couldn’t look away. The man appeared to be in his late forties, with impeccably styled salt and pepper hair and intense copper eyes. Everything about the man was stylish, in fact - he wore a tailored navy suit jacket and trousers, the silver paisley print matching the highlights of his hair. His face was fine-boned and exotic, with high, arching, cheekbones and a thin, curved, mouth. He held a black walking cane in his fist, the initials ‘H.L’ just visible beneath his tan fingers. 

“I was wondering if you could help me with something,” the man announced, and Will found himself almost in a trance, unable to look away. The man’s eyes warmed with amusement. “I’m looking for a print I saw in the window, the one of a silver birch,” the man continued in that low, elegant tone, and Will was suddenly struck with the longing to have met him somewhere else, in nicer clothes, where they were both in front of the desk, and Will knew the right words to say. He nodded, trying for them now. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, that print isn’t in stock yet, the one in the window is the only copy we have,” he replied, feeling vulnerable under the man’s intense gaze. He frowned, feeling a sudden pang of frustration that he couldn’t give the man the print he wanted. 

“Oh, no matter, “ he replied patiently, lips twitching. “I’m sure I saw it in Blick’s down the road.”

Will was struck with that same frustration, undercut with an intense longing for the man to stay, keep his eyes on him. 

“My mistake, now that I think about it, believe we do have that print in stock," Will breathed out, eyes darting around the room to ensure Mr Shulman was not watching. "If you still want it,” Will finished quickly, unable to meet the man's eyes.

The man raised his eyebrows. “Yes, that would be wonderful,” he replied, smiling, eyes glittering, and then, in a quiet, conspiratorial, voice, “As long as it’s not going to get you into trouble.”

Will smiled ruefully, shaking his head, and excused himself, rushing to take the print from the stand in the window as though worried the man would have disappeared when he got back. It was beautiful; silver ink on a deep blue canvas, as elegant and artful as the man.He wrapped it deftly and carefully in cobalt paper, taking extra care with the silver bow, acutely aware of the man's heavy gaze on him. He saw him take a cigarette from an engraved silver tin with slender fingers in his peripheral vision, and quickly finished tying the bow.

"Oh, I'm sorry, there's a no smoking policy on the shop floor," Will said apologetically, suddenly very irritated with the policy. The man sighed in exasperation, then nodded faintly, sliding the cigar back into the tin.

"Forgive me, I find Christmas shopping a chore," the man stated, features softening. Will took in his unflinching demeanour and crisp, pressed, suit, and found it difficult to believe he was ever nervous.

"No that's quite alright, you're by far the most agreeable customer I've served today, " Will replied quickly, and the man smiled, even though Will wasn't trying to be funny. He handed the man the parcel, their fingers touching for the briefest moment, and Will felt as though his hand had touched flame.

“Thank you, you’ve been most kind,” the man said, eyes crinkling in amusement, like he knew a secret Will didn’t. Then, softly. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Will replied smiling, and this time he meant it. He watched the man’s lithe figure walk all the way through the store and up the street, until he was swallowed by darkness, and he was affronted with not only a feeling of longing, but also something like hope, as he saw the man’s cane rested against the counter.


	2. The Other Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will calls the mysterious man from the shop back and they arrange to get a drink.

"Good evening, is this League's Fine Art Store? " The distinctive, low, purr that came from the other line almost caused Will to drop the phone with a start, immediately recognising it as the man from the previous evening. Will had thought about him throughout the evening and into the night, unable to write a single word of his novel. He rallied himself, gripping the phone so tight that his palm whitened, and plugging his other ear with his hand to drown out the noise of the store.

"Hello, yes this is Will Graham," Will replied as discreetly as he could, and then pressed a palm to his forehead, realising the man would not know who he was, "I'm the man who served you yesterday in the shop, I don't know if you remember," Will rushed apologetically, trying not to panic about the flood of customers coming through the doors. It was Christmas Eve, and the shop had been packed all day. Will had never wished so many people merriments in all his life. 

"Ah of course, how could I forget?" he replied coolly, and Will could picture his face in his mind, all hollows and curves. He smiled; the man had remembered him. "I'm sorry to bother you at what I'm sure is an incredibly busy time," Will silently shook his head, suddenly not caring about the store, his position and Mr Shulman's watchful gaze, barely aware of where he was. It was as though he existed in a separate time, away from the noise, when he heard the man's voice. "I'm just calling about a missing item; I believe I may have left my cane at the store when I was paying." Will glanced over to where he had faithfully placed the cane in the backroom, vigilently making sure it wouldn't be damaged. 

"Yes, yes, I have it right here," Will replied shakily, trying to ignore the rising panic in his chest. If the man came to collect the cane, that would be the end of it. And there was so much he wanted to share, wanted to know. 

"Right, well I can hear that you're busy at the store," he replied gently, pausing for a moment. "When do you finish your shift?"

Will suddenly lost the ability to think, as though he were in a dream, a daze. "Uh, in fifteen minutes, I clock off in fifteen minutes," he replied, just as a primly dressed woman in a berry red skirt and gloves started to drift towards the counter. 

"Well, how about we get a drink?" the man asked, a smile in his tone, and Will's entire being warmed at the prospect of seeing the man again, despite being aware of the danger of reprimand from Mr Shulman for using the phone so long. 

"Yes, yes I would love that," Will replied, hating the obvious excitement in his tone, in contrast to the man's smooth, even, voice.

"Meet me at the Rum House on 47th st," he paused, and Will waited with baited breath. "Shall we say, eight o'clock?"

"Eight o'clock," Will repeated dumbly, turning to the woman waiting impatiently at the desk. 

"I'll see you at eight, Mr Graham."


	3. Shape and Colour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal meet for a drink.

“Thank you for holding onto the cane for me, Will, I was sure I’d lost it,” Hannibal smiled, drawing Will away from the bar. He’d ordered something called a ‘Vieux Carre’ for them both, amber whiskey with a maraschino cherry. He’d never had it before, and it felt like a drink for someone else, someone sophisticated, like him. 

They found a table in the corner of the bar, next to the window. It had been snowing lightly since dawn, but now the snowfall was heavy, obscuring the dark view of the city from the window.

“Merry Christmas, Will,” Hannibal grinned, clinking his glass to Will’s. He looked less formal than yesterday, but was still well dressed, wearing a pearl white shirt and thick wool pea coat. Will felt a thrill in his stomach when he said his name, although he was still not entirely sure why. 

“Merry Christmas,” Will replied, then paused suddenly, realising he didn’t actually know the man’s name.

“Hannibal, Hannibal Lecter,” Hannibal answered for him, reading his expression. Will smiled lightly, taking a sip of his drink. 

“That’s an interesting name,” he remarked, trying to keep his eyes on Hannibal’s. It was like staring directly at the sun. 

Hannibal’s mouth quirked up. “My parents are rather eccentric,” Hannibal answered, taking a bite of his cherry. “Lecter is a Lithuanian name, which is where my parents are from.” Will nodded, enthralled. “It means ‘the liberator’ in Greek.” He finished his cherry. “Forgive me, I always end up driving conversation,” he continued, “comes with being a psychiatrist.”

“You’re a psychiatrist? Will questioned, intrigued. 

“Was,” Hannibal replied, draining the dregs of his drinks and clasping his hands on the bar table. “I’m retired now, I have been for three years.”

Will nodded, still enraptured. “Why did you retire?”

Hannibal’s composure faltered for a moment, his eyes becoming forlorn, before straightening and smiling. “It’s not a very interesting story,” he remarked, eyes brightening. “Anyway, I want to know about you.”

Will swallowed, suddenly nervous. He felt, as he often did in conversation, overshadowed, small, strange. But as he felt the warmth of Hannibal’s gaze on him, waiting for him to speak, he felt his fear fall melt away, like snow thawing. 

“Well, I’m a writer,” Will replied, unfamiliar with talking about this. He rarely broached the subject with his male friends, all store clerks, content with earning a wage and going home to their girlfriends. He felt othered, and not just because of his interests, but who he was at his core. Like he wasn’t made right. He stifled the feeling, continuing, “Trying to be, at least,” he scoffed, the self-doubt edging its way back in and cooling his tone. 

“A writer?” Hannibal asked with intrigue, sitting back in his chair. “What do you write?”

Will smiled, taken aback by the interest. “I uh...speculative fiction, mainly,” Will continued, hoping he didn’t sound pretentious, “I like to imagine a future...a different one.” he stated, as though only just realising it himself. “It probably won’t amount to anything, and I’m probably wasting my time, but it’s what I like to do,” he concluded, surprised by his frankness.

Hannibal smiled warmly. “Time that is enjoyed is never wasted,” he replied softly, eyes gentle. “You have so many years ahead of you, Will,” he paused, thinking. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” Will replied, eyes downcast, feeling young and naive and out of his depth all of a sudden. Hannibal nodded, leaning a little forward in his chair. 

“Are you a Bushwick native, or did you move here?” he asked warmly, flagging a barman with his two fingers. 

“I moved here from Virginia when I was nineteen,” Will replied, nodding when Hannibal gestured to his empty glass as he ordered them another round of drinks. Alcohol usually made Will slow and but Hannibal’s presence fuelled and focused him, and Will was vaguely aware that he felt he needed to impress him, prove that they were on the same level, that he was worth talking to. Hannibal didn’t seem convincing, from the way he was looking at him. 

Hannibal nodded, focusing his attention on him again. “And your parents?” he enquired, twisting the gold ring he wore. Will had noticed its glint when he walked into the bar, and assumed, with measured disappointment, that it was a wedding ring. 

“My mother still lives in Virginia, but my father’s dead,” Will said, suddenly cold. A hazy picture of his father's face appeared in his mind, like he was seeing it underwater, and he swallowed, suddenly sick with himself. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hannibal said sincerely, his voice bringing Will back from the dark. He slid Will his drink across the table. “Were you close?”

Will shook his head, smiling a little wryly. “We used to do things together - fish and hunt and fix diesel engines at the local boatyard,” Will explained. He’d gone so long without talking to anyone about his father that his voice was spent, throat closing, having to drag the words out. “He was very cold, emotionally,” Will continued, voice quiet. “I don’t know, I’m not sure I knew him, not really - I don’t think he wanted me to know him,” Will finished, surprised again at his honesty; he had told Hannibal things he hadn’t been able to admit to himself. Despite barely knowing him for two days, he felt safe, seen, like he could be himself. Something about Hannibal drew him out. 

Hannibal nodded solemnly, his arm flinching slightly, as though he wanted to touch Will’s hand, comfort him in some way, but thought better of it. “Do you share your apartment with someone, a girlfriend, perhaps?” Hannibal’s tone was light, but Will sensed a hidden meaning in the words. 

He laughed a little against his hand. “No, I uh...I’ve never been socially adept enough to date,” he replied, draining his glass. The vermouth stung his throat, and he liked it. He felt like telling Hannibal, then, all of the fears, the doubts, the questions, that floated around his subconscious, violently pushed back into the dark when they arose; that he was not capable of love or intimacy, and that the feelings he had had for women were a weak imitation of every description of love he'd ever heard. Despite the whisky loosening his tongue, and the radiance of Hannibal’s gaze, he stopped himself from speaking; some things should not be said, especially in a crowded New York Bar. 

Hannibal nodded nonchalantly, although his eyes were knowing. 

“And you, Dr Lecter, are you married?” Will questioned, gesturing to the ring on Hannibal’s finger, the iridescent gold winking at Will in the buttery light of the bar, as if it knew a secret Will didn’t.

“Divorced,” Hannibal replied levelly, placing his hand beneath the table. “It was a...mutually agreed separation, two years ago,” he continued, and Will felt a wave of relief wash over him, unaware that he had felt something akin to jealousy at the sight of the gold. “She is a very understanding woman.” 

Will sensed the reverence of his tone, and felt a pang of something other than jealousy, something stronger, something he had felt as soon as he first made contact with those eyes over the counter of the shop - longing. It was a dull ache, almost bittersweet, pooling beneath Will’s ribs under his shop uniform. Hannibal smiled at him across the bar, almost as if he understood, and the feeling permeated further, warming the tips of his fingers. He felt light for the first time in his life. 

“What do you do on weekends?” Hannibal asked suddenly, eyes fixed on a loose curl falling over Will’s forehead.

“Nothing, aside from writing my novel,” Will replied with a questioning tone, slipping his fingers through his hair to break up the curl. 

“How about you come visit me, this weekend?” Hannibal asked, and Will felt that undeniable thrill go through him, as though he'd just woken from a dreamless sleep.

“Yes, I’d like that very much,” Will replied, smiling. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, listening to the hum of music from the bar next door and the chatter of customers at the tables surrounding them. This silence, unlike most he experienced in conversation, was comfortable, a reprieve. Hannibal finally broke it, gently pressing his foot to Will’s beneath the table, so quickly Will was almost unsure it had happened. 

“Come, it’s late,” Hannibal announced, standing to put on his coat. Will nodded, in a daze, staring at Hannibal’s elegant fingers as he buttoned his coat. Will pulled on his hat and gloves, then fished in his pocket for money to pay for the drinks. 

“No please, my treat,” Hannibal announced, pressing a gloved hand to still him. Will felt the warmth of his skin through the fabric. Hannibal’s hand lingered a moment longer, before pulling back into his pocket. He lead Will through the bar and out into the cold stillness of the night. 

“Saturday, noon?” Hannibal asked quietly, his body close to Will’s, shielding him from the snow. 

Will nodded quickly, and he wanted to tell Hannibal that he would have agreed to any date, any moment, stretching back and forth in time. 

“Saturday then,” Hannibal smiled, turning his coat collar up to the wind, and he faded into the shape and colour again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying so far :)


	4. Boxing Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will meets Hannibal at his house in the country.

Will had never seen a house like Hannibal's. 

It dwarfed his apartment in Bushwick, which was hollow and plain, the walls painted a pallid yellow that he hadn't had the time or energy to change since he moved. Hannibal's house was vast and decorative, with long, light, hallways and cavernous rooms, the walls and surfaces covered in art and eccentricities. Will had taken the spiral staircase to the upstairs living space almost in a trance, clutching the present he had bought Hannibal the day before in his clenched fist, following Hannibal's long, graceful, strides until they reached his living area.

They sat there now, Hannibal kneeling on the floor, adjacent to the towering fir tree in the corner of the room, decorated with dazzling ornaments of gold and white, an ornate gold stag suspended at the very top, as though caught in motion. Hannibal looked like a man off duty, wearing a deep burgundy shirt loose at the throat rolled up to the elbows, and black pleated trousers. Still, there was that air of poise and elegance, almost intimidating, like a statue of a Greek centurion, a person remade in marble and elevated to art. Will found himself remarking in his mind that Hannibal was beautiful, not handsome, as men were often described. It was ill fitting, too banal.

Will sat on his hands on the piano stool, clutching the plush black velvet of its cover. Hannibal said the piano belonged to his ex-wife, but he didn't play himself. Will wondered silently whether he kept it around as a token, so that her memory would still linger in the room and echo down the halls. He understood that notion; he kept the fly fishing hooks his father had bought him for his sixteenth birthday, six months before he passed. He didn't use them, but on rare occasions, when the icy chill of isolation crept through the hallways and made his chest heavy, he would take them out of their silver tin and stroke the pad of his fingers along the vibrant feathers, and he would think of home. 

"Do you play?" Hannibal asked with a smile, taking a sip of eggnog he had poured for them both and setting it on the floor beside him. 

Will nodded, suddenly shy. He used to play a lot as a child; his mother encouraged him. His father didn't say anything when he played, he would sit rigidly in an armchair in the corner of the room, eyes downcast, working on something or reading the paper, and yet Will felt a sudden chill enter the room when he did, like the curtains blowing open in a storm, and Will felt his fingers freeze up, unable to continue, as though he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. Still, he wanted to play for Hannibal. He'd do anything to keep him looking, asking questions. He rarely played now, still feeling as though he was disappointing his father in some way. 

He wordlessly started to play something bluesy he'd made up on his old keyboard in his apartment, the melody filling the room. He added a new flourish at the end of the notes, something he’d never played before, and realised distantly that he was desperate to impress the doctor. 

Hannibal’s eyes fluttered open when he finished, a faint smile etched on his features. “Beautiful,” he said quietly, and Will smiled, abashed. “Who wrote it?”

“I did,” he replied quietly, stroking his fingers soundlessly over the keys.

“What a clever boy you are,” Hannibal said faintly, staring at a point just above Will’s head. Will felt a spur of confidence suddenly, and reached in his pocket for the brown parcel he’d bought the day before. 

“I got you something,” Will started, slowly rising from the stool and kneeling down on the plush white carpet, careful to keep a little distance between them. He felt as though there were invisible bounds marking the space between them, and that crossing those bounds would be a perilous exercise in self-discovery, and Will wasn’t sure he was ready to discover himself. He slid the neatly wrapped parcel to Hannibal, who smiled, surprised. He unwrapped it neatly and carefully, revealing a sturdy paperback book. 

“It’s Keats,” Will began shyly, eyes downcast. “It’s my favourite book,” then, quickly, when Hannibal didn’t reply, “of course, if you don’t like it, I can always return it, it was an impulse purchase really…”

“Will,” Hannibal reached over and pressed his long, ringed, fingers to Will’s wrist, stilling. It’s beautiful, thank you.” His hand lingered for a moment longer before he returned it to the book, turning it over in his palms carefully, as though it were fragile, before standing to place it on his richly stocked bookshelf in the corner of the room. When he returned to Will, he knelt down close to him, then laid his body out, resting a hand beneath his chin. Will felt something flutter low in his stomach at his proximity, so close he could smell the aroma of his aftershave, something low and warm and distinctly masculine. Fear darted through him too, at his crossing the boundary, but the longing overpowered it.

“I feel as though I’ve been thoughtless, not buying you a gift,” he sighed, sparse eyebrows downturned, before returning his eyes to Will's.

Will shook his head quickly, “No, you inviting me here was a gift in itself,” he replied sincerely, and Will again saw that glint of amusement in his warm eyes.

They were silent for a moment, the seconds broken only by the light hiss of the fireplace behind where they sat, dipping the edges of Hannibal’s figure in white light, as though gilded. The smile suddenly returned to Hannibal’s face, and he turned to Will. 

“Would you read me some of your writing, Will?” he asked suddenly, scraping the faint ghost of stubble on his face with his fingers. “You played so beautifully, I’d love to see what else you can do,” he continued softly, and Will wondered if he imagined the hint of mirth in his voice. 

Will suddenly seized up, his father’s voice echoing in his head, as though his skull were suddenly hollow, “ _Poetry is for women_ ,” he said coldly. “ _What kind of man are you, William_?”

Will’s eyes flicked to Hannibal’s, and he felt like he knew. 

_“And carved from shadow and vivid shades,_

_The picture of him appeared._

_In bloated moments of greyish mornings,_

_His eyes shone bright and clear._

_Hope is bereft, and days are cold, and talk_

_Is small and cheap,_

_Yet in the flame of his his warm gaze,_

_The fire burns hot and sweet. “_

Will recited the line carefully and quietly, sinking to the carpet mid-stanza so that his lay on his back next to Hannibal, their shoulders touching. When he finished, he stared out at the darkening sky, and felt a sense of belonging and safety, like a ship moored to shore. Hannibal took his hand then, gently, intertwining their fingers in front of his face, and when he leant over to kiss him, pressing him back into the carpet, hands in his curls, his mind was quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the terrible poetry lol it's definitely not my strong point
> 
> hope you're enjoying the story so far :)


	5. A New Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal asks Will to accompany him in his travels.

In the weeks that followed their kiss, Will felt as if the world's saturation had increased. The cherry red Chrysler on his way to work gleamed in the sun, the streetlamps burned with a more vibrant wattage, and the cold barely permeated his gloved fingers. He'd started wearing his hair differently to work, too, grooming the curl so that most of it swept to the side, a few stray pieces falling into his eyes. Not that he really cared about work; the days passed in a haze, almost like he was asleep, only coming awake when he thought of Hannibal, and the prospect of seeing him again.

There was shame too, shame spoken in whispers, reminiscent of his father's voice. He was mostly able to push it away in the light of day, under the warm glow of the January sun and the anonymity of the sidewalks of New York. Night time was the worst, alone in his apartment, where that cold, cruel, sinking feeling would sicken him, leave him paralysed in his bed, as though he'd committed a terrible crime. 

When he made the journey back to his apartment that day, twilight beginning to dampen the sky, Mrs Bertucci, the landlady, called out to him. "Call for you William," she said resignedly, before continuing to leaf through her magazine. 

"Hello," Will asked in earnest, hope quickening his heartbeat.

"Hello Will," Dr Lecter said, and Will heard the smile in his voice. "How have you been? It feels like weeks since we last spoke."

Will's heart skipped. "Fifteen days," Will said quickly, trying and failing to keep the desperation out of his voice. He heard Hannibal laugh lightly on the other line. "I've been good, actually," Will replied, surprised that he meant it. 

"I'm glad," Hannibal purred on the other line, and Will pictured could see him so clearly in his mind, sitting in his office, sleeves rolled up, smoking a packet of marlboros, a man drawn in bold lines. "I've missed you, Will," he finished quietly, as though he were letting Will in on a secret. 

Will's heart jumped, warmth spreading in his chest. He paused before replying, glancing around the dimly lit hallway, as though the line was tapped, or somebody was standing in the shadows, waiting for him to say something incriminating. "I...I've missed you too." The words felt heavy in his mouth, like they took up too much space, and Will was again struck by a deep longing to know himself, and Hannibal, to bombard Hannibal with the questions he'd had since his teens, questions he knew Hannibal had the answer to. "I...I want to ask you things, but I'm not sure if you want that," Will said unsurely, eyes still on the hallway. 

"Ask me things, please," Hannibal replied softly, his voice full of a tenderness Will hadn't heard before. 

"I..." Will struggled for his words, which were cut off by a group of laughing workmen walking into the building, holding beers and paper bags from the delicatessen. 

Hannibal seemed to know what had occurred. "How about I come visit you, tonight," he asked casually, as though he were trying to calm Will. "I have a very expensive bottle of wine I've yet to open and something I want to ask you."

Will felt feverish with excitement at the prospect of seeing Hannibal again, and what he wanted to ask, forgetting the loud commotion in the hallway. "Yes, I'd like that," he smiled, cradling the phone close to his mouth.

"I'll call on you in an hour," Hannibal said warmly, and the line cut out. 

"You live like an artist," Hannibal remarked, surveying the walls of Will's apartment. He'd been apprehensive about Hannibal seeing it, knowing how meagre it was in comparison to his lavish, cultured, house, but the apprehension, as always, had been outweighed by the prospect of seeing Hannibal. He turned to Will and smiled, twirling the glass of merlot in his hand. "It's very...avant garde."

"I believe that to be a polite way of saying messy, Dr Lecter,” Will replied from the couch, gazing at Hannibal’s silhouette. Hannibal grinned wolfishly, revealing sharp, straight, teeth, and Will realised he had never seen that expression on him before. He liked it. 

Hannibal placed his glass on a book on Will’s coffee table and sat close to him on the couch, knees touching his. Will was still highly aware of their proximity, every movement Hannibal made, every touch, however casual, like his nerves had been set on fire. Hannibal rested his chin on his hand, then, with feather light touch, took one of Will’s curls and twirled it around his finger, before sweeping it off his forehead. Will sighed, leaning into his hand. 

“I’m going away for a while,” Hannibal stated, dropping his hand to his lap and leaning back a little, eyes light. Will had never appreciated the rarity of their colour, a blend of hazel and green, vivid and bright in some lights, cold and dreaming in others. Will felt a pang of disappointment and loss in his chest. 

“Oh,” he started, swallowing, placing his wine glass on the table. He was too forceful with it, the sound of glass meeting glass echoing around the apartment. “Where? “

Hannibal smiled wistfully. “I’ll know when I get there,” he replied vaguely. He paused for a moment, and Will almost believed he saw a flicker of something akin to fear in his eyes. “I was hoping you might like to come with me,” he continued, and unadulterated joy took the place of disappointment. “Would you like to come with me?” Hannibal finished, almost shyly. 

“Yes,” Will answered quickly, smiling. “ _I would go anywhere with you_ ,” he wanted to say, but he felt as though Hannibal already knew that. He would have to miss work of course, but that could be arranged; he had the option of an annual fourteen day leave of absence, and could withdraw enough money from the two hundred dollars in his savings account to last him the trip. He would’ve agreed anyway, even if Mr Shulman fired him and the lease on his apartment ran out. 

Hannibal’s eyes crinkled at the corners, mouth smiling. He kissed Will then, gently, on the cheek, one hand rested lightly on his knee. Just as he was about to pull away, a strong, urgent, feeling to keep him close, to crush the distance between them and let it fall in broken pieces on the floor, came to him, and he took Hannibal by the neck, drawing him back against his chest, and kissed him deeply on the mouth. He’d never kissed anyone like this; the few awkward kisses he’d had with prom dates and girlfriends had been chaste and mechanical, like pushing squarely against someone’s mouth and them pushing back. Kissing him felt like life, like all the energy in the world was beneath Will’s fingertips at Hannibal’s pulse point. Hannibal seemed like he’d done this before, grazing Will’s jaw with his fingers and sliding it into the thick, dark, hair at the nape of his neck. It both thrilled and intimated Will. He parried his movements, sliding his hand carefully from Hannibal’s shoulder to his arched back, down to his loose cotton shirt, under the fabric to the warm planes of muscle…

Hannibal pulled back reluctantly, placing his forehead against Will’s. Their breaths came in ragged bursts, and Will was almost pleased with himself when he saw the pink flush staining Hannibal’s throat and cheeks, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes. 

He pulled back a little, hand still on Will’s jaw, stroking it idly with his thumb. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Will asked suddenly, a little embarrassed by how breathless he was. 

Hannibal smiled almost sadly, then placed a kiss to Will’s cheek. “No, Will, of course you didn’t,” he replied, his hair tickling Will’s cheeks. He leant back a little, placing Will’s hands in his.“I just...I care about you, about this,” he continued, casting his eyes down to their entwined hands, then lifting them back to Will’s heavy gaze. “There are so many things about each other we have yet to discover, and so much time to do so,” he smiled a little ruefully. Will nodded, still a little disappointed. Hannibal smiled faintly, tucking a curl behind Will’s ear, then raised himself off the couch, smoothing down his shirt. “It’s late, I should go,” he smiled, taking their long stemmed wine glasses between his fingers. 

Will nodded, smoothing down his hair. He watched as Hannibal wordlessly rinsed and dried the glasses in his tiny kitchen sink, before pulling on his navy overcoat and fastening the buckle. 

“When should I be ready to leave?” Will asked quietly, walking Hannibal to the door. The doctor leaned his head against it, idly smoothing down Will’s lapels with his fingers.

“I’ll pick you up at 1 o’clock sharp on Sunday,” Hannibal replied gently, pulling on a pair of thick leather gloves. “I’ll be driving a bottle green Ford; there’s not much space in the boot, so pack lightly.” Will nodded faintly, already thinking of the clothes he would wear, the books he would bring. 

Hannibal suddenly reached into his pocket, pulling out a brown paper bag. “A late Christmas gift,” he uttered. Before Will knew what was happening, he silently handed it to Will, a smile gracing his features, before surveying the empty street and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, then striding out into the night. Will stood in his doorway, dumbfounded, watching him go, then, almost as an afterthought, opened the bag. In it was a decadent parcel of green fountain pens, and a leatherbound journal packaged in creamy tissue paper. There was a brown tag attached with a gold ribbon to the binding, the even, swirling, message reading, “ _For stories yet to be written.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it this far <3


	6. Montauk Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal travel to a beach house in Montauk.

The three hour drive to Montauk Beach went by in a flash of colour and light. They drank sweet tea in the car as Hannibal drove, eyes steady on the road, occasionally flicking back to Will. He liked to watch Hannibal drive, watch his gloved hands on the gears, the straight set of his mouth. The countryside passed by in a blur of deep evergreen and buttery yellow fields, the early spring air dancing amongst the cornfields, wishing away the dandelion clocks in a haze of silver clouds, like smoke from a chimney. Will slept through the last thirty minutes, curled up in his seat, and was vaguely aware of Hannibal placing a picnic blanket over his shoulders, sweeping his hair from his face.

He awoke to the Everly Brothers playing on the radio. They were parked on a high track overlooking the sea, which fell over itself in soft, dark blue, peaks, foaming at the stony shoreline before retreating into itself once again. There was a lighthouse perched on a nearby cliff face, painted in even stripes of ruby and pure white, its shadow cutting through the still water below. It looked surreal, too perfect, like a toy or a painting.

Hannibal was smiling at him. “Let’s unpack.”

“I can’t believe you won’t let me pay for any of this,” Will remarked, craning his neck to take in the beach house. It was high-ceilinged and decadent, with a spacious living area and master bedroom, complete with an en suite. Their balcony overlooked the shoreline, which was painted in greys under the watchful eye of the moon, ebbing into the high tide, the colour of a starling’s feather. 

Hannibal smiled, setting the rest of his things in the bedroom, before joining Will by the window. His hand was warm as he took Will’s and placed a kiss to the centre of his palm. “You’re my guest,” he replied in a low voice as he stared out at the horizon, and Will was struck again by his beauty, even after a day of driving and dressed in plain clothes, the hollow planes of his face bone white and glistening under the moon. 

“I haven’t been to the beach since I was a kid,” Will said almost wistfully, eyes on the water. He saw himself running along the hard-packed sand, his laugh carrying on the wind, his father’s steel-capped footsteps, a ghostly trail on the shore, washed clean when high tide came. The memory was faded and filtered through the rose-coloured lens of childhood, but he clung to it like rock in the midst of waves. Hannibal smiled woefully, taking Will’s hand in his. 

“Were you happy?” he asked quietly, trailing his thumb lazily forwards and backwards on Will’s palm.

Will was thoughtful for a moment, his face suddenly lighting up. “Not as happy as I am now, '' he said, and he kissed Hannibal on the mouth. 

When he pulled away, all he could see was the spectral outline of Hannibal’s features, like the imprint of a leaf in rock, aged and perfected over thousands of years.

“Let’s go to the beach,” Will said suddenly, twining his fingers in Hannibal’s. “I want to touch the water.”

Will stood with bare feet at the shore as the tide ebbed and flowed, peppering his skin with rough silt and shards of shell the colour of lemons. Hannibal sat on an embankment of sand not three strides behind, dragging his finger gently through the clay-like sand. 

“Is it cold?” Hannibal asked quietly, examining the piece of quartz he held between his two fingers.

“Freezing,” Will replied, and he grinned. He walked lazily back to where Hannibal was perched on the sand and lowered himself down next to him, their knees touching. 

They were silent for a moment, Hannibal’s eyes on the chalk white moon on the blackboard sky, Will’s on the sea.

“When did you know you were gay?” He asked suddenly, wrapping his arms around his chest, eyes fixed upon a flickering star on the horizon.

“Since I was fourteen, “ Hannibal replied unflinchingly, eyes still upturned to the sky. 

Will stilled, turning his eyes up to Hannibal. “Why did you marry?” he asked quietly, as if he wasn’t sure if he should. 

Hannibal sighed, eyes thoughtful. He was silent for a fractured moment, turning the piece of jagged stone over and over in his hands. “Because it was expected of me,” he replied, finally turning to face Will. “Because I thought that if I followed convention, and led a life that was palatable, I would eventually be content,” he continued with a wry smile, wringing his hands. “It turns out, you cannot control with respect to whom you fall in love.” Will felt his gaze permeate the wool of his tartan overcoat, warming the back of his neck. 

“You cannot choose but know my love/And he is soft as any dove,” Will said under his breath. 

“And brown and curly is his hair,” Hannibal finished wistfully, eyes flicking over Will’s face and coming to rest at his curls. “Oscar Wilde,” he uttered in a voice that was not quite a whisper.

Will smiled. “So you didn’t love her, your wife,” he half-asked, half-stated, pressing his bare foot to Hannibal’s snow boots. 

Hannibal gazed thoughtfully at the moon-stained sand, then shook his head lightly. “I loved her very much,” he replied strongly, meeting Will’s eyes. “Just not in the way either of us needed.”

Will leant his palm against his cheek, his skin stinging with cold. Maybe for the first time in his life he felt safe, like all the world was as still and quiet as the mist that draped the sea. He rested his cheek on Hannibal’s shoulder, and felt nothing but the steady rise and fall of his chest and the grains of silt against the soles of his feet.

“Why did you stop being a psychiatrist?” Will mumbled against the thick fabric of Hannibal’s bed jacket, the memory of Hannibal’s faltering smile on Christmas Eve when he’d asked that question an answer in itself. 

“I was fired,” he replied evenly, pressing his hands together. 

Will swallowed, eyes downcast. “Why?” he asked, feebly, chest already heavy with knowing, as though he’d been tied down with weights.

Hannibal smiled sadly. “You know why.”

Will nodded slowly, then reached out and took Hannibal’s hand, placing it against his heart, palm spread. 

“I think I know myself, when I’m with you,” he said softly, pressing against Hannibal’s touch. “Do you know what I mean?”

Hannibal’s mouth quirked up as he found the opening of Will’s shirt and slid his fingers under the coarse material, pressing them to Will’s heartbeat, which fluttered like a caged bird. 

“More than you know,” he answered softly, and he wrapped Will in a careful embrace, like he was a fine china Hannibal was afraid of breaking. 

Hannibal rested his chin atop Will’s curls, dark eyes placid. The air was freezing, dancing under their clothes and finding purchase in their extremities, but neither of them seemed to mind. 

“What have you been writing?” Hannibal asked, voice carrying on the wind like dandelion seeds. 

“Poems,” Will smiled, gaze fixed on the swell. 

“Would you read me some of them?” Hannibal asked gently, rubbing smooth, even, circles along Will’s delecotte and against his throat. 

“No,” Will said suddenly, voice finding purchase. Hannibal stilled for a moment, eyes imperceptibly clouding with hurt, bleeding into inquisition as Will stood, eyes never leaving Hannibal’s, and held out his hand. 

“I want to show you,” he said, his voice just audible over the roar of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to hozier and this sort of happened lol. Thank you if you made it this far <3


	7. Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will spend the night.

The beach house was warm when they returned, the heat stinging their numb hands and feet. Will watched silently as Hannibal slid off his coat in one fluid motion and fixed them some tea, adding the honey Will liked. He observed Hannibal like a painter memorising a subject, then; the refined features, strong, lithe arms and line of tan skin just visible when he pressed up on his toes to find the honey,and Will knew that he loved him.

“Hannibal,” he said quietly, walking towards him with bare feet over the carpet. Before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed himself up on his tip toes and kissed him on the mouth, sliding his fingers up his neck and into the fine hair around the nape. Hannibal stilled for a moment, hands at his sides, and then kissed Will back cautiously, pressing his fingers gently to Will’s hips. Will could still feel the distance he was putting between them, his wavering resolve, and he wanted to crush it like stone beneath his feet, keep him this close always. 

He pulled back a tiny amount, breathing heavy, and pressed their foreheads together, fingers twined in his hair.

“I want you,” he whispered against his jaw, and he felt Hannibal still against him for a moment, then nod, his stubble tickling his cheek. 

He took him by the back of the neck then, finding purchase in his curls, and pulled him flush against him, their chests together. Will’s body hummed with desire, undercut by something sharper, close to fear. He felt vulnerable suddenly, like he’d finally let fall to the floor a mask he’d been wearing, but his body seemed to know exactly what it was doing, hands straying to Hannibal’s lower back and pressing flat against his hips. Hannibal deepened the kiss, angling his face upward and pressing Will back against the doorframe, hands gliding up beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, trailing languid swirls with the pad of his fingers just above the hem of his shorts. Will sighed against his mouth and flushed, embarrassed, but Hannibal either didn’t hear or didn’t care, pressing impossibly closer against him. Will was suddenly affronted by the same knowing he’d felt on that December morning he’d first laid eyes on the man, like the blank canvas of a world he’d been living in had finally been painted in rich colour, grey sky shaded periwinkle, the yellow walls of his apartment dipped in gold, and he felt as though the pieces of himself he had scattered throughout his life had come back to each other, like the reparation of a broken tea cup. And when Hannibal led him to their room, cradling his waist, and began to unbutton his shirt, he let him. He let go. 

Two days later, Will woke up at midday to the sun through the blinds, Hannibal at his back, arms circled around his waist. The lake outside their Cold Spring motel stretched into the horizon like a mirror, reflecting sky and sun and buildings. Will thought of the day they might have; stopping for coffee and drinking it by the lake, buying food that Hannibal would cook for them, taking off their socks and shoes and lying side by side on the floor, talking into the early hours of the morning, and was struck by a sudden inspiration. Grabbing the journal Hannibal had purchased for him from the bedside table, he uncapped the fountain pen, holding it in his mouth, and gazed at the unopened book in his lap, then flicked his eyes to Hannibal, who stirred but didn’t wake. Smiling to himself, he leafed open the book to the first page, and wrote a title in careful, swirling, green lettering; ‘Life in Colour.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this was a satisfying conclusion - thank you for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading - as a wlw I absolutely love Carol and thought some of the ideas would work well with this couple - I understand how important the film is and I definitely don't wanna offend/appropriate - just writing this for fun lol


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